


The Defection of the Soul

by butterflycell



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Modern Era, OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflycell/pseuds/butterflycell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the centre stands a wrought iron gate, an archway into what looks like another world. It's something straight out of his imagination, only a hundred times more magical."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Defection of the Soul

**Author's Note:**

> To get the feel for this fic, you should listen to Garden by Pearl Jam (off their debut album, Ten) - the title is a line from it. It has this beautiful, ethereal quality to it that I desperately wanted to translate into a story! (This fic also exists on my LJ, so this is a cross-post)
> 
> Enjoy!

The Defection of the Soul  
  
There is an old, stately manor house in the English countryside. It is situated in a classically idyllic area, still and free of the sounds of modern life. For fifty weeks of every year, the house is wrapped up and kept hidden, white sheets covering the regency era extravagances and modern day additions. For two weeks of the year, the sheets are lifted and footsteps wander idly through the vast expanses of corridors. All noise seems to be muffled in a stern rebuke. The haughty expressions on the paintings and sculptures give a distinctly unwelcoming feel.  
  
In those two weeks, it is far more likely to see someone wandering the park-like gardens, exploring everything from the woods to the lake. The primly manicured flowerbeds by the house are left unaddressed. The wild nature of the surrounding land is far, far more exciting.   
  
It is perhaps this reason which saw the owner's son, golden haired and barely five years old, running helter-skelter across the rolling lawns towards the bordering woodland. A nanny calls out to him, but the lack of conviction in her voice is far too evident.  
  
He bursts through the tree line with an uncharacteristic grin and stares, wide eyed, at the trees around him. He's never seen trees this big or this many. Father doesn't agree with spending too much time outdoors.   
  
He wanders, slowly, searching for something he can't place. Perhaps it's the perfect tree, with low down branches or a hollow truck, or perhaps it is an animal, something that flutters lazily or croaks upon approach. He runs and swoops and shuffles between the trees, tentatively creeping deeper, a sense of adventure prickling at his skin. With each step away from the tree line he takes, his confidence grows. One moment he is a little boy, free and happy, the next he was a knight, off to rescue the beautiful princess. His imagination has never been the brightest, but it suits him fine.   
  
He tumbles through valleys and enchanted groves, edges his way along precarious ridges and battles the deadliest of beasts. He mutters secret passwords and pokes at hidden buttons, winding his way through the trees and following the prickling at his skin without question.  
  
It feels like an electric shock, sudden, almost painful but not quite.  
  
He's teetering on the edge of a monstrous cliff face when it happens, jolting him back to where he stands on a crest of dirt. The ground drops away below him several feet; the land had slid away over time. The dirt he stands on is held in place by two huge trees on either side of him. He clambers down the ridge and finds himself in the shadow of a huge wall.   
  
It is at least twice as tall as Father and completely overgrown, lush green leaves winding across the almost invisible brick work. Plaster has fallen away in places, leaving the red beneath exposed to the world. Mud and dirt was crusted over the first few feet of it, gnarled vines latched to the cracked surface.   
  
In the centre stands a wrought iron gate, an archway into what looks like another world. It's something straight out of his imagination, only a hundred times more magical. He steps closer, awestruck.   
  
Through the gate, he can see partially overgrown statues, some crumbled, some broken, some green with age. He can see huge ferns that turn the sunlight a rich green, and mossy turf that undulates around a strange plateau filled with small boulders and broken rock. Strange flowers blossom all around in colours he has only ever seen on television.  
  
If he was much older, he would described the warm sensation that trickled through him as ecstasy. For now, it is simply magic. Pure and tangible magic. It moves in the sunlight and glows where it touches the ground, winding itself up and around into distinct forms.  
  
He sees two men conversing, one who looks a little like him. He's fully grown, in armour and a crown. His hair shines gold in the sun, flecks of silver at his temples and in his beard. The other is thinner, with dark hair and big ears. They glimmer like phantoms, sunlight pouring through their skin and making them shine.  
  
He reaches out a hand when the gate creaks open a few inches, swinging towards him.  
  
The movement startles him and it breaks the spell. Father is suddenly in his head, warning him not to trust strangers, not to go anywhere he doesn't know on his own. He blinks and the garden isn't warm or inviting, it's shrouded in shadow and unpleasant shapes.  
  
The warmth that had embraced him was chilled. The prickling on his skin has lost its brilliance and he is no longer the knight battling against monsters. He is a scared little boy, lost in a strange place and he does what he's been taught.  
  
He runs away.   
  
*  
  
 _“Merlin.” Arthur's whisper is a roar in the echoing silence of the garden. The place is filled with beautiful flowers and intricate sculptures, perfection at every turn, but he sees none of it. All he sees is Merlin. Merlin lying prone on a stone table in the centre of the garden. Merlin, surrounded by the priestesses.  
  
He takes a step forwards, but hands move to hold him in place. They look at him, begging for his understanding, but all he can see is how pale Merlin looks.   
  
“He has given himself to the garden, my king.” One of the younger girls says gently, imploringly, and Arthur glances at her, unseeing. He entertains flickers of memory from the past months. He relives conversations and arguments and he knows Merlin was right.   
  
Their world had been dying, the colour and beauty bleeding away from everything. Children grew sick in their cribs and the old and frail weakened and passed away by the dozens. Shadows clung like cobwebs to Camelot and her King, but only their sorcerer had known how to heal the sickness. He'd told Arthur time and time again, that there was a sacred place that lay in ruins, destroyed at the hands of their enemies. He'd explained that something needed to be given in return and Arthur had been more furious than ever before.   
  
He'd known what Merlin intended to do and now he found it was true.   
  
The women around him seem to gravitate in rings around the garden. Some mourn the destruction of their haven, some flicker with anger. Most stare at Arthur, pleading. Don't take him away, they beg.   
  
Ancient eyes in young bodies, so much like his. Arthur pries away the hands clutching him and moves towards the table, falling to his knees beside it.   
  
“He gave himself, to heal our creation.” He speaks to the women and the garden and Merlin all at once but none reply, not yet. He's reminded of the unicorn, of the penance he had to pay for his wrong doing but he can't see what it was he did this time.   
  
“My lord, he knew. The moment they forced their way in, he knew.” Two women crouched beside him, hands lying on his arms in comfort.   
  
“The life of your land flows from this place like blood from the heart. When the garden grew sick, Emrys knew what had to be done. His magic repairs and his soul nourishes and the garden is beginning to mend.” She's slightly older than the others and her voice carries more authority. She looks down at Merlin with a warm, motherly smile and Arthur feels his heart break.   
  
He stands up and moves to kneel beside Merlin, half wishing he could lie down and sleep for an eternity beside his lover. He knows he can't, that Albion needs him, but he feels change around him like the bitter tang of iron on the back of his tongue. He knows a battle is coming and he is powerless to stop it, just as he is powerless to stop storm clouds rolling across the horizon.  
  
He needs Merlin but he knows that their kingdom needs them more. The garden needs Merlin to heal it and the land needs Arthur to govern it.   
  
He bends his head and kisses Merlin hard, pouring everything he can into the touch, silently pleading for him to wake up. Part of Arthur knows that this is the last time he'll see Merlin. Looking at him now, Arthur sees that he isn't prone, but comfortable. That he's alive is of little consolation. He strokes his cheek, pushes back his hair, traces his features and it's not enough. Looking never has been enough. Touching doesn't quell the need.   
  
He knows he can't stay any longer. He can't bare to be in a place that is so full of Merlin's life when he can have none of it. He bites back a choked noise and gets to his feet, turning silently from his lover. He walks away without another word to the priestesses gathering around him.   
  
It takes a month of tension before the brewing storm breaks. A messenger stumbles frantically into court and, with decorum and tradition forgotten at the door, announces the movement of enemy forces. Arthur doesn't need to hear him speak to know who commands them. Indeed, he enters the battle at the point of his men, leading the charge. He still feels responsible for such evil and without Merlin there, he has nothing more to live for.   
  
The moment he sees Mordred, he knows he isn't long for this world. There is no fear as he launches an attack and it is with relief that his body finally crumples to the ground before oblivion takes him.  
  
If, days later, the barge bearing him away is relieved of its load, no one notices. The women who form the procession that winds away from the lake shore know of Avalon and what is said to lie there, but they also know their King's heart.  
  
Eternal life with the heroes of old or eternal death with the man he loved. The decision was simple.   
  
The body is lain on the stone table, beside the ever-sleeping sorcerer. Within moments, magic weaves itself around it, preserving the physical and absorbing the ethereal.  
  
The garden thrums with life and love, two souls reunited and finally free of all restraints. _  
  
*  
  
There is a little country village, filled with quaint stone cottages and wild flowers. Everyone knows everyone else and throughout the year, no matter what the weather or the time, there is always someone there to give a smile. It doesn't own the richest of economies, but no-one struggles.   
  
It is idyllic in it's own way. From the surrounding hills, smoke can be seen puffing and curling from the chimneys. Girls glide down the narrow roads on their bicycles, ribbons streaming in the wind. Cars trundle along and glint in the sun, followed by the bubbling voices from beneath awnings at the coffee shop and the pub. Contentment saturates the air.   
  
There are the most basic of shops along the widest of the roads and it is from the florist’s that a young, dark-haired boy tumbles with a whoop of laughter. He's four, maybe five, and all limbs and foolish grins as he circles the road outside.  
  
The fond warning from the shop doorway is met with a smile and he runs pall mall down lanes and across fields.   
  
He is an adventurer, heading across the plains of Australia to capture a kangaroo and give it a home. He clambers awkwardly over a style, landing on his back. He takes no notice and springs to his feet and pelts off across the final meadow, leaping over a fallen log as he breaks through the tree line of the forest.   
  
He looks up and he's surrounded by the tall, exotic trees to the Amazon rainforest. Strange animals and birds honk and call as he passes. He knows these woods, knows the paths easiest to take and those most interesting. They have been everything from an underwater jungle to a magical city. He would sneak across the ground, avoiding the suspicious glares of the tree dwellers above.   
  
He reaches the edge of a vast lagoon, a waterfall bubbling to one side. He would stop and take a swim, but he's searching for the legendary sunbird. He leaves the puddle of old rainwater and climbs over tree roots in the other direction, feeling a tingling at his fingertips that spread along his arms like an ink spill.   
  
He wanders, stumbling happily through areas he knows, some he doesn't. He finds a strange trail, one he's never noticed before and he follows it. He's a sorcerer, on the hunt for magical creatures that have been terrorising his village. He'll find them and smite them and his mother will smile so much when he tells her of his battle. He follows foot and claw prints and decides the monster has wings and a beak, perhaps four paws. He'll claim a feather and put it in his collection when he gets home.   
  
He finds himself so tangled in the glittering web he endlessly weaves that he doesn't notice the wall. He falls backwards in a heap of scruffy clothes and bemusement. He blinks and stares at the strange, mystical wall, all covered with creepers and vines, the plaster work flaking and falling away to show the red brick.   
  
Dirt rises up around the base to where his knee stands and all he can think is that this place is both very old and very new at the same time. He stares, his imagination turning and tumbling, catapulting from place to place as he tries to understand. Inside is an ancient city, a mystic temple, a place of magic and secrecy and he itches to see it.   
  
He skin prickles and tingles again and he starts to make his along the edge, hoping to find a door or a gateway or a break. He wants to be inside and he doesn't mind how.   
  
When he finds the heavy, wrought iron gate with its black, peeling paint and its ornate metal work, he can't open it. The gate stays stubbornly locked, but he can peer inside.   
  
The garden inside the walls is better than anything his mind had conjured. The colours paint wild lines across his vision and the sun glows through the leaves over head. The weathered and broken statues are majestic and strong even in disrepair, rising from the lush green grass that rolls across the ground before him. Something chatters and rustles and burbles away and he can't describe how it makes him feel.   
  
Inside, everything is aglow with something perfect and amazing. It's magic, real magic, it must be, he thinks wildly, eyes drawn to the strange, twisting patterns the sun made as it trickled downwards.   
  
He jolts backwards, alarmed, when he sees the sunlight fade and hum to make two people, men, standing alone beside a pile of crumbled, broken rocks. One is a knight, a king, the other has his ears and the same mop of hair. The knight has a hand to the other's face and he feels something surround him. It feels like his mother's arms only more so.   
  
The glowing, spectral forms fade back into sunlight and he feels himself deflate. He rattles at the gate again, but nothing has changed. He look up at the walls, taller than his house and wonders why there is no key to open the gate. Magic, he thinks with a smile, magic.   
  
He feels something in him start to shine and he's in a fantastical forest, leagues wide and home to the deadliest of animals. He'll find his way home, against all the odds and his mother will be so happy to see him.   
  
With a few halting steps, he turns and begins his haphazard tumble back through the woods.   
  
*  
  
The garden lies buried and forgotten, filed away in memories long since lost. It is never again found and the world begins to change. It grows more serious and loses some of its magic.  
  
Time passes and cobwebs form on the day dreams and fantasies that once breathed life into open minds. Yet, despite its efforts, two sparks of something more lie dormant in the world, beating in time with hearts that know each other perfectly and not at all.   
  
When they meet, magic will claim back what time has taken. Lives and love cut short will blossom again and breathe the air once more.   
  



End file.
